admiration for Jan, and for his own astuteness in foretelling this
exceptional capacity and acquiring ownership of the hound, he also saw,
with angry puzzlement, that his team was falling off in condition and in
efficiency as a unit.

It was not that the leader lacked either justice or discretion in his
fiery severity. Jan displayed both to a miracle. But the team had to
live between his severity while at work, and Bill's bitter and tireless
persecution and crafty incendiarism outside the traces. Over all, for
their consolation, were the whips of the masters. But so infernally
crafty was Bill, that he never once allowed the masters to detect the
real wickedness of the part he played. They could see poor Blackfoot's
bleeding hocks: "We got to call heem Redleg soon. Damn that Beel!"--but
they could not see Bill's continuous crafty incitements to mutiny, or
the hundred and one ways in which he strove, when out of harness, to
work up hatred of Jan among his mates, or when in harness to play subtle
tricks which should produce an effect discreditable to the new leader.

Intuitively Jan became aware of most of these things. But even where he
detected Bill at fault, he could not trounce the ex-leader as he
trounced the other dogs, because he and Bill knew very well that there
could be no sparring, no such lightsome thing as mere chastisement,
between them. There was war to the death in Bill's snarl when Jan so
much as looked at him. He was perfectly certain he could, and would,
kill Jan directly a suitable opportunity offered. Jan was not so sure
about that; but he did know very well that he was not capable of just
thrashing Bill and letting it go at that; for over and above Bill's
unbeaten prowess as a fighter and master dog there was a mortal hatred
in him where Jan was concerned--a hatred which, weighed as a fighting
asset, was almost equivalent to a second set of fangs.

And then came the memorable evening upon which Jean killed a bull-moose
and all the team fed full--except Bill.

XXVIII

THE FEAST AND THE FASTER

Jean and Jake were not out on a hunting expedition, and if it had
involved hunting, the probabilities are Jean would never have bagged
that bull-moose. But it happened that, when his sharp eyes sighted the
moose in mid-afternoon, the poor beast had just managed to break one of
its forelegs in a deep hole masked by snow. It was practically a sitting
shot for Jean, and that at a range which made miss